


And The Curtain Falls

by damnneovelvet



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Mark Lee (NCT)-centric, Mentions of Death, Mutual Pining, Rakugo, References to Depression, Roommates, Sad with a Happy Ending, Storytelling, late shouwa period and old tokyo freeform, lots of adjectives beware, they ignore homophobia like they should, 昭和元禄落語心中 | Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu - Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet
Summary: Mark blinks.When he opens his eyes, he's in a new world. Specks of dust dance to the tune of a lone shamisen, people sit with their breaths held still and Donghyuck... his mirth flickers across the stage, an imprint too deep to ever erase.(alternatively, Mark's struggles with the art of storytelling and crying feat. loads of pining)
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 24
Kudos: 49





	And The Curtain Falls

**Author's Note:**

> -please forgive any inaccuracies or errors, my experience with rakugo, however limited, made me write this (and other reasons listed in the end notes)  
> -idk if i made this sad enough but please don't read if you're not in the correct space for any kinds of angst  
> -new experimental writing style, so no editing

The curtain rises.

//

The first time they met, they were young, all gangly limbs and round faces. They were still known to the world as Mark and Donghyuck.

_ He’s from a similar background as you _ , their master said, be nice to each other.

Mark quickly learns that the words 'similar background' come steeped in a deep sense of loneliness and an empty childhood. Similar background, because both of them had been abandoned. 

At the age of fourteen, Mark became an apprentice at the same place that had housed Donghyuck for the last two years -- the famous seventh-generation Lee rakugoka's home.

Mark stepped in with an injured leg, a permanent cloud raining over his head and a matching frown to boot. He could still hear music from the Geisha house when he closed his eyes. He could still see his mother's disappointed face when she had learnt that his leg no longer allowed him to be a graceful dancer. He leaned on his walking stick, pale and haunted. 

Cicadas chirp in the background and a boy with honey skin and a short-sleeved shirt appears in front of him.

The first time they met, Donghyuck -- and his eyes sparkling with the same daze as summer heat -- took Mark on his first and final adventure.

//

Storytelling is more than a form of narration, it is a living, breathing lifeform with a soul of its own.

Years of rote memorisation, arguments in spring and shared blankets in autumn bring Mark a step closer to the stage. Every apprentice dreams of it -- of the stage, dreams of an audience of hundreds laughing along with every joke, crying along with every tragedy and being unable to take their gaze off of the performer. 

But that is all it ends up being for many. A dream.

The war has long been over; the golden age of Rakugo shimmers right beyond their reach.

Mark has learnt how to appreciate the art form, but he is nowhere near mastering it yet.

He spends his days on the verandah, script in one hand, a fan in the other. He tries and tries, but there is an odd hesitance to his movements. Sweat pools under his knees and he shakes as the fan doesn't glide open. Frustration sprouts within him and many days are spent agonizing till he is found, lower lip bitten and eyes fixed on the endless array of jumbled letters.

One evening when they've both had enough, Donghyuck teaches him how to hold a folding fan the correct way, legs numb from sitting in seiza for hours and foreheads sticky from the heat. 

"It’s simple, you just, flick it like this," The demonstration comes easy, like water gliding along a riverbed but Mark’s wrist is as good as heavy rock, unmoving. 

He finally understands what holds him back. Fear sears through him as he realises how he might end up tearing up the object he continues to struggle with.

It isn’t until a while later that Donghyuck takes the matter into his own hands.

Gentle fingers nudge at Mark’s and as the older turns his gaze to the top of Donghyuck’s head, he feels for the first time, an intense desire to run his fingers through someone’s hair.

//

The first time he performs in front of a small audience, albeit just his master and other apprentices, Mark cries. 

It’s a short script, one he has been perfecting in secret for months now. He’s been reading in the bath, practising lines in the kitchen and even murmuring them under his breath as he falls asleep every night. However, also for the first time in his life, the effort falls short. 

Stoicism is an attribute better seen in non-performers, in those who don’t live to learn what it feels like to see the lights from a stage that knows no bounds. Expressions that don’t resonate within the viewer’s chest hold no meaning. Being lacklustre is no excuse; being shy is an unforgivable sin.

Nothing ever seems to be perfect these days. Not when Donghyuck performs the same story as him with hundred times more vigour, manages to make even the master chuckle, then goes out to play with the other apprentices instead of waiting for Mark. Downtrodden, he sinks into misery as finesse evades his fingers yet again.

Heavy tears roll down his cheeks as he curls into a futon. 

Nervousness shakes his core, rendering him motionless and as it had in front of people, speechless. 

There is no method to his madness. He is Mark, simple, sombre, soft. He can never in his lifetime embody the centre of the universe the way Donghyuck does. He can’t laugh with his mouth wide open and he can’t mystify whoever sees him. Feelings of abandonment creep up through his veins again.

He is simple, and the last artistic bone in his body breaks.

//

Nights are longer when it snows. 

Mark becomes Minhyung, ready to go out into the competitive world of Zenzas, the lowest ranking rakugoka. He sits on the balcony that night, finding a beautiful half-moon. He is one of the last apprentices to finally promote and it hurts whatever leftover pride still resides in his chest. 

Nevertheless, he is overjoyed to be a Zenza, to get to finally sit on a stage seen by more than a handful, perhaps even perform in one of the bigger theatres of Kyoto. But it isn’t enough. The joy isn’t enough to replace the fact that he is inexperienced.

He listens to the radio, to the rising masters who managed to pull through wars. They have a melody in their voices, a gravitational pull that grabs the listener and makes them listen, actually listen. 

They say their roots lie in a childhood scarred with the spoilage of a long, hard war.

Mark doesn’t have the ability to keep people listening. He can stand in the middle of a crowd but can’t stand out. He blends right into the mass of people, just one among many. His pains are common, every person on the street has an ache just as heavy, just as ordinary in their hearts. 

He turns around to see Donghyuck lying down, arm stretched out to where Mark should be. The boy snores softly, a comfort on most days. He leans on an arm and reaches out to trace the boy’s cheek.

He wonders what makes Donghyuck this endless bundle of sunshine.

Mark wants to be like him. He wants so horribly to personify something, even if it isn’t as bright as storyteller Haechan who turns heads dressed in a patterned kimono and attracts crowds of his own. Mark loves him, loves his energy and passion. It is what has kept him afloat as he remains lost out at sea.

There may be better days ahead, where he finally recognizes where his talents lie, or this may be as good as it gets, with Donghyuck right here where he can continue to admire unabashedly.

A soothing warmth runs its lips across his insides and Mark jolts awake to a new reality. The bitterness he so desperately wishes to harbour withers every time he plants a seed. It can't sprout in such intense heat.

In some shrewd corner of his mind, for the first time, he wants to snuff out the flames flickering in his chest.

//

The train journey isn’t long and Mark is more than satisfied seeing pastures roll by. However, an elbow keeps nudging into his side.

"Mark! Do you think I should have packed more?"

"You can’t do anything about it now."

"Argh! If I need more clothes, I’ll just borrow yours okay? You have more pants than me."

The first time Mark realises just how far gone his adoration has become is when their master takes them to Tokyo. It isn't the first time he finds Donghyuck’s rambling adorable, but it is the first time he sees with open eyes, just how simple the younger can be.

He may be larger than life, but off stage, he could be a smiling anybody, with people waiting for him at home, tired and warm.

Mark wants to be his somebody.

Donghyuck's voice echoes in his mind as they find themselves at the decorated gates of a grand theatre. This is where Donghyuck sees himself ten years down the line, Mark knows because the younger told him once, as they laid down with their eyes closed gently. He had hummed in response, making it seem like an admission that yes, he had the same dream but reality is a little different. When he closes his eyes, there is nothing but black, perhaps a dull orange glow every once in a while. 

They are led in, Donghyuck's palm tight around his wrist, tugging him along, and if this isn't the best description of his life, he doesn't know what else would even fit.

They sit next to each other, every performance better than the previous. The best stories are those that both of them know. They whisper to each other in the last row, laugh under their breaths and Mark wonders if Donghyuck can teach him how to laugh again. They sit there with stars in their eyes, for one they come from joy, for the other, they light up with hope.

Once the show is over, and everyone is bustling around, they turn to face each other.

"We’ll be here someday. Together."

Donghyuck sticks out his pinky finger and perhaps Mark’s mind is already whirling, like leaves in windy autumn. 

"Together," He promises, his finger looping around the younger’s. The slight contrast between his own pale and Donghyuck’s honey-like skin has started to feel more familiar than the cobbled streets of their neighbourhood. Mark’s heart skips a beat and he shies away, hands falling between them, fingers still linked.

//

Some evenings, his heart flutters at the sight of a setting sun. Furins chime overhead, the sound of tinkling glass soothing his ears. 

Then the sun disappears, dips somewhere far beyond anybody’s reach, far beneath what anyone knows is a horizon. It will rise again in all its glory -- gold and white -- yet the knowledge does nothing to soothe his burns. He flits about like a firefly that has lost its light.

A dark emptiness stirs within, somewhere near the place he hides feelings for a certain blossom.

//

Mark comes to the slow realisation that Donghyuck has taken most of his metaphorical firsts.

While he may not be the first person to have hurt or abandoned Mark, he is the only one he has experienced so many emotions with. They are like the sea, moving up and down in waves, crashing and then retreating to chaos disguised under beautiful harmony.

The first time Mark actually feels inadequate is also with Donghyuck.

When the golden boy holds his fan, takes a cloth in the other hand and seated charmingly on a pillow takes off to narrate the story of a bone thief, Mark finds himself at crossroads. 

He wants to laugh. Laugh at himself and his miseries that don't hold a candle to anyone who has seen true horrors. He wants to cry. Cry because the stage is lit with bright lights, vibrant colour and an artist that makes his chest throb.

The bone thief tricks his master, and at this moment, unlike others, Mark loses immersion. He doesn't see two men squabbling over an unidentified pouch of money. He hates himself. Donghyuck's interpretation of the story is one of the most hilarious, but he can't watch. He can't fake absorption when all he wishes for is to learn how to absorb.

As the story progresses, as his fellow audience members cackle and double over with laughter, Mark struggles to hide a grimace. He grins whenever the sharp gaze lands on him, but otherwise, he isn't enjoying. Cannot be enjoying. 

Donghyuck isn't even 'Donghyuck' anymore.

He is Haechan. 

The brand new robes hanging over his lithe shoulders are proof that he has far surpassed everyone in their little league.

A prodigy, they call him, as old masters look over with pleased smiles and remark that the boy needs to stop being a measly Zenza and be quickly promoted to a Futatsume. 

And so it happened.

It happened faster than Mark could open his eyes on a rainy Sunday morning, only to find the futon next to his wrapped up and stowed away.

Lee Donghyuck has become Haechan of the Lee lineage of storytellers. 

As he captivates everyone with smooth and snarky gestures, Mark trips. He has been standing at the top stair of a long narrow staircase for years. He trips, and he doesn't know when, but soon, his head will hit a stair as he tumbles down, his bones will break once again, and this time, everything inside him will be shattered beyond repair because this staircase is endless. 

Haechan, glowing and sparkling, leaves for Tokyo. 

Mark, bleak and pale, is confined to his small room with worn-out pages and dust settling in all the places he will never be able to polish.

Perhaps it is time to forget everything and get a regular job.

After all, Donghyuck had always been the sun, and Mark might not even be the smallest part of the moon.

//

Balancing his newfound job as a newspaper boy and early morning rehearsal is difficult.

He hasn't given up yet, not when all his life he has known only one thing. He lies to himself more often than he wants to, but this is a lie his gut refuses to accept. It walks away rejected and torn apart.

Mark learns, practices, fixes his posture and at night when nobody is around to watch anymore, begins to caress the satin-like skin of his previously injured leg. 

He feels a shiver every time he stands up and stretches out, pointing his toes and dragging them along the ridged tatami. The calluses on his feet hurt, unlike the last time when they had been hardened enough to endure hours of gliding in high heeled wooden shoes to please whoever sits in their room. 

He swirls, unbound.

Dance and grace were left behind when he was ousted and if there are things he wants back, it is the ability to tell something through his body. His limbs tingle as he sways, rooted to his spot yet dynamic. 

The night draws on, the moon shines high in the sky and every time Mark catches a glimpse of it, he understands why they didn’t say ‘I love you’ and preferred to stargaze with shoulders touching in the past. His fingers intertwine with the cold ones of a silent breeze -- loving, caressing. Fervour simmers beneath endless thin skin making blood sprint from the heart to his soul. 

Mark breathes heavily, lungs straining but pleasantly.

He doesn't know how long it has been since he stopped. He pulls up the yukata, stares at his leg, at the patch of healed skin. 

Does he really want to tell stories by mouth? Does he really want to use a tongue that tangles on itself every time his words might make a difference? Does he want to live by the spoken word, just as unachievable as it is vivid?

Perhaps all he wants from the stage is the same love his mother was once showered in.

It has been two months since Donghyuck left. 

And surprisingly, not for the first time, he wonders if he is where he is supposed to be. If this is his fate. Perhaps the higher divinity forgot of his existence the same way everyone else does.

The next morning, there is a letter addressed to him in the mail.

Donghyuck invites him to Tokyo.

Every inch of Mark's body sizzles and he wants to refuse; every piece of him wants to shut down and never see the light of day again. However, he is a person well on his way to overcome challenges, it is what he promised himself the night Donghyuck left. 

He starts folding and arranging his clothes.

//

Tokyo is bigger than their village up north, but it is beautiful. He has been here before, though never for long enough to appreciate how scenic it can be. 

There are lamps floating along thin ropes over damp levelled streets. Curtains of spun cotton flair in the breeze and Mark feels ease settle into his chest. Old ladies in soft aprons flit about with baskets and young girls with pigtails laugh as they fall over stones. Of course, the bustle of main streets is frightening but in this small corner of such a historic city, he finds a piece of home. 

Their reunion is short, a hug tight enough to cut off air, fluffy hair tickling both their noses and wet kisses being planted onto high cheekbones despite scuffle. 

Once Mark has left his belongings at Donghyuck's small open home unit, they sit down on a futon and talk. Donghyuck cuts to the chase, he is helping set up a drama and wants Mark to act.

"You told me once that the stage is your calling, Mark. Why not give this a chance?"

"Do you really think I can act? You of all people know me Hyuck, I can't even recite a poem or story-"

"You just have fear in your bones. And I'm going to empty it, now or later, but I will."

Call it the stupidity of a fool in love, but Mark can't refuse when he finally has Donghyuck's knobbly fingers in his and their thighs pressed against each other.

"I'll try, but I can't assure you anything," 

"That's enough, that's all I need."

A day later Mark regrets his decision. Donghyuck has an impish smile on his face, eyes bursting with scandalous energy and a tattered script is placed in front of him. Shinagawa Shinjuu -- double suicide in Shinagawa -- a dark comedy about a courtesan who is afraid of going into unemployment and poverty.

"This is a Rakugo story…?" He questions as Donghyuck's palms land on his shoulders with a smack.

"You, my boy, are going to play the main lead."

Mark swallows harshly.

//

Mark has been told before that he looks dainty in an apron. Back then, he had assumed it was the hair, grown and falling to meet his long eyelashes.

"My, you’re beautiful, has anyone ever stopped and told you that before?"

He shakes his head nervously as the lady in-charge holds his face closer. She paints his lips a stark white to match the rest of his face. He closes his eyes, relishing in the soft feel of a brush working across his skin. He feels like a canvas and the strokes turn him into an exquisite painting. The brush leaves for a second and comes back dipped in blazing red. 

Once he is allowed to look at himself, eyes lined in kohl, a heart drawn over his mouth and jewels hanging off his ears, he feels...novel. Ground into powder and rebuilt in a kiln. He had never imagined that he could pull off this face of classic beauty. His shoulders are wide, the cloth around his body highlights every built muscle on his back, his hands are larger than any woman's would be. And yet, yet he is perfect, an ornate hair clip sparkling in the dressing room lights.

He is nervous. His first stage production, something he had never even imagined of doing. There will be hundreds of gazes locked on him and that very thought is unsettling. He can't look at them -- doesn't want to, his lungs might just collapse.

The curtain parts and Donghyuck walks in, dressed as an Edo guard, shimmer high on his cheeks. He steals the breath out of Mark with how wonderful he looks.

Donghyuck was born to take the stage.

His amber-like skin drips with confidence, eyes shining with radiance and the way his soft round lips curve send Mark tumbling to an early grave. 

"Mark, you look pretty. The perfect courtesan, huh? You're gonna leave the audiences reeling," the younger laughs, boisterous, "The ladies would have never thought that a handsome man could take their spot!"

Their eyes meet through the mirror. Mark doesn't know what made his heart want to lunge out of his chest, the eye contact or the fact that Donghyuck called him handsome? He might just be overly dramatic, but it is what it is. His nerves calm down as Donghyuck's own pretty mouth curves into a supportive smile.

Minutes fly past and the stage is clear. 

Donghyuck reaches out to touch Mark's fingers, lightly intertwines them before he has to leave, to take over his spot and start the first scene. Mark's hands continue to burn in delight even as he saunters into view, an umbrella in one hand, the other hiding his face.

Mark proceeds to become Oume the courtesan, seduces a shopkeeper and convinces him of the bleakness of life. 

Oume, too old for her regular customers and too poor to love alone, cries of desolation and abandonment. The naïve shopkeeper lends her a shoulder, pulls a screen and embraces Oume in essence. 

Mark folds himself on the floor, a brightly lit screen separating reality from the illusions of silhouette they present to the audience. He doesn't glance anywhere other than his little sphere. He can't afford to break, can't afford to be Mark when he should be Oume. If he looks into the dark sea of people with their faces focussed on him, he will most certainly forget the weeks of effort Donghyuck put into everything.

Oh, the thought of Donghyuck makes him woozy.

Behind the silhouette screen, Oume and her lover make plans of dying together. 

"If life is such a struggle, why can't we leave it together sweet?" Oume croons, a hand on her forehead and body twisted in melancholy.

Mark gulps, the comedy begins here. He doesn't understand what makes death funny, what makes people howl when they listen to the original story, but perhaps, there is a secret pleasure in knowing that nobody can manipulate the god of death. That nobody can outwit fate, nobody, and to see others fail at those very endeavours just makes them laughing stock. Perhaps, the humour lies in the fact that everyone wants to leave but there is no way, and those who try only end up being called foolish.

They plan and fail, again and again. As they fail to hang themselves because there is nothing to tie the rope to, chuckles fill the hall. Once they try to poison themselves and realise that their drinks were exchanged with someone else at the brothel, the look of surprise on their faces draws laughter. They try to stab each other but Oume doesn't want to dirty her precious clothes and her silliness has people giggling in delight.

If Mark strains his ears, he can hear a certain telltale pitch straining to stay in control near the backstage curtains. It brings a small smile to his own face.

Maybe the story isn't funny, but their exaggerated expressions are.

Once Oume learns she is required back at work, that her regulars will still pay to see her no matter how far she has left innocent youth behind, she sees no point in dying, but she has made a promise, and it's alright, as long as she shows up.

As Oume and the shopkeeper stand at a harbour, looking deep into each other's eyes, Mark pretends he sees doe-shaped brown eyes. As Oume and her lover jump, commit double suicide, Mark wonders.

If he were a beautiful lady with a slender body and long hair, would Donghyuck love him? Would Donghyuck fall off the bridge with him, wrapped in an embrace and pink lips attached to his own? Perhaps not, for it is his self that is lacking not his physique, and the fixtures of his heart crackle a little.

Oume makes it back alive -- a brilliant swimmer -- having faked her affection all along to gain money. And so does the shopkeeper, for he survives by accident and learns what a fool he had been.

As the play comes to a close, with Oume and the shopkeeper running into each other by chance ona day much later, the audience cheers. 

Mark's bubble bursts and suddenly not a single drop of blood in him is silent. He reverberates with energy as he no longer finds himself playing Oume. The lights turn back on and the audience stands up, hooting and clapping. Donghyuck walks out front, and so does every other member of the cast, but the smile on his sunshine's face can rival the brightest diamond in this world. He is Mark, and in this moment, he is adored.

Flowers are thrown onto the foot of the stage and they all take a bow, their rookie theatrical act having garnered success they hadn't even dreamt of.

He loves the attention, his performance had been flawless, and perhaps he finally has the universe reflecting in his eyes. Perhaps he finally sees the same universe reflecting in Donghyuck’s heavenly eyes.

At this moment, Mark and Donghyuck stare at each other, knowing they have finally broken past an unnamed barrier.

//

Traditional comedic Rakugo is the standard. 

The first time Mark deviates stems from the time Donghyuck dressed him up as a courtesan and put him on stage.

"You have a very masculine figure, but you have a softer...cuter face. You also get shy easily, why not use both your gifts equally?" The make-up lady had told him the first time she assessed his skin. 

Donghyuck had agreed and after the drama was over, Mark was certain to remember every praise sent his way.

"You're like a beautiful dancer, except now you make words dance," a friend had told him over dinner the previous week, and he carefully held onto those beautiful words, ringing in his ears till the sun rose and set day after day.

So began Mark's journey of finding obscure stories. His new job at a local publishing house helps him grab copies of stories that ran out of print years ago. Very few masters ever tell stories that have little comedy. He wants to try a hand at those.

Seasons change and Mark sees himself changing in front of the mirror.

Every word that falls from him resonates with a truth he has hidden in his body.

He possesses natural talent at relaying stories that are dark or erotic. It turns his ears red and flushes his skin every time he has to look at himself portraying a lustful man or a prostitute, but he does it. He does it because all these people have existed -- still exist -- in the parts that society likes to turn a blind eye to.

When a character dies, he remembers the death of a young child, happy and loved one day, only to be abused and broken the next. He remembers how for most of his childhood, he believed it was murder. A murder of sugary innocence. Left to rot with a broken leg and a shattered sense of self.

Mark tries. He looks at his own eyes and digs deeper to find every little act of injustice that has hurt him.

And he learns how to be sad. Even sadder than he already is.

It would have all been for nought, if it weren't for one small show where Mark relayed the story of a promiscuous man dying in love over an uncouth lady. All it takes is one master from the association in an unexpected crowd, one story beyond the level of a Zenza, withering hope and raw calibre.

//

While they laze around in their now shared home, legs tangled and empty bowls of ramen left to be washed, Donghyuck asks Mark what story he wants to perform first now that he’s a Futatsume, now that he can perform with the name Minhyung.

There's glee in the younger's voice and Mark believes that he might just be happier than Mark himself. 

He smiles in return.

"It's a secret, you'll have to come and see it for yourself."

"But I'm performing too! This is unfair, I wanna be in the audience, argh!"

Mark laughs and thinks he can perform anything as long as Donghyuck is there to see it. The sun may set every evening, but his affections only know how to grow.

//

Donghyuck is popular. 

He has to be, Mark reasons as he folds the laundry one evening, he is not just beautiful but exquisite. The man glides like the wind, here one moment, there the next. Gentle wind that grazes your cheeks and brings relief.

Popularity also brings work and money. While Mark continues to struggle with more traditional jobs and only works on Rakugo whenever he isn't slaving away at the publishing house, storytelling is Donghyuck's sole source of income. He's doing fairly well for himself, managing to scrape by whenever he doesn't drink too much. 

Mark's cheeks take a red hue whenever he thinks about them living together. Running a household together. He's folding their laundry, one of his own shirts, then the other's pants, then his own yukata. Everytime he comes across Donghyuck's clothes he can't help but squeal out of domesticity. They smell the same, they mostly eat together, they cook together, they even sleep in the same space. 

It's different from the time they used to live with their master. Independence has its own taste, sweet and spicy, adventurous yet familiar. 

Nighttime rolls by and Mark busies himself in the kitchen, trying to make something simple. 

Haechan was tasked with opening a local show that evening. 

Little achievements need to be celebrated so that their happiness is preserved longer. In the future, when they look back, not only the achievement will make them nostalgic, the tiny flickers of celebratory memory after that will add to the feeling. Happiness, in whatever quantity attained, must be kept safe. 

He prepares soup -- simple and healthy -- and settles down to wait. He lights a cigarette then reads. The clock ticks by and Mark's nerves start prickling.

Mark is happy. Genuinely so. He has been since he came to live here.

But he never learns. He has tried so often to learn from his mistakes and this one, he keeps repeating again and again. This one, he can't seem to ever rectify.

When Donghyuck does come back, it's past eleven, the streets are silent except for his giggling and his neck, his smooth bronze neck, is heavily dotted in red and violet. His plump lips are swollen and there is a tangible air of ease with how he carries himself. He tumbles onto a futon, not even bothering to undress or wash up and a new wave of airy giggles finally break Mark from his daze.

Two bowls of miso soup are drained down the sink that night.

//

Mark scoffs. 

It's time for cherry blossoms to bloom, to turn the cityscape a beautiful pink. Ever since he was a child, he'd dreamt of flower viewing. Sake in hand, a checkered picnic mat on fresh grass, swirling petals falling into golden brown hair. 

Sunkissed days of sweet however, don't belong to him.

These days, he spends time by himself. He reads, reads and reads. Then he goes to work till his muscles hurt so much he can't stay awake. In between, he sits down with his eyes closed and learns to pretend. 

Pretense isn't nearly enough. He needs to transform completely, from a caterpillar to butterfly. Then again, he remembers, Donghyuck has always been afraid of little things that can fly. 

He doesn't come home with bruises sucked into his skin anymore. He just doesn't come home till they fade. Mark would know, he sees him in dressing rooms, colour being slathered onto marked skin. Hiding.

Mark wonders if it's his fault, if his sharp gaze and withdrawal gave him away. Donghyuck doesn't try to talk to him anymore than necessary either.

The darkness within Mark has been stirring restlessly.

The universe really is trying to crush whatever parts of him remain visible.

One spring morning, Mark receives news that the geisha house his mother worked in has burned down. 

He hasn't seen her in years, he was abandoned after all. Even then he can't help but feel that now, he has no one left to look out for him. His mother may have never reached out again but he was born of her flesh and blood. 

He wonders if there will be a grave he can visit.

//

If nights were dark, Minhyung’s art was night. With stars studded into every tale he spun, he shone, but that is art. Art is meant to shine, to make darkness bearable. Minhyung’s night rose from the turmoil of Mark’s forsaken heart. No matter how hard anyone looked, all his matters were found with roots anchored in his little heart. Treacherous and tainted. 

His very pulse makes him wonder that if he loses the darkness, will he also lose his art?

//

Mark is in love.

Long gone is the time he was afraid to give his feelings a name. He has one, but instead of spreading sparks it leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

He stands in their balcony, staring at a small houseplant he was gifted earlier that day. It will thrive till he waters it, but the moment he stops it will shrivel. Maybe his heart is just a plant and all that he calls darkness or the void, they're just earthworms making a home on bleeding grounds. He looks out at the streets, at the endless array of buildings and houses, just like theirs.

Mark wonders for a brief moment if there exist others like him. To be in love with the person you are closest to and to have their lips sealed everytime they move about. It doesn't even sting anymore. It's like the dull ache that one has to live with if they have a chronic illness.

His chronic illness is loving Donghyuck.

It's the same as loving someone who might return your feelings but never with the same intensity, never with the same intentions. 

He watches from afar, has to. There is no other choice. 

It's wicked -- wretched really -- how Mark survives on the hurt. It fuels him, makes him feel alive, feel normal. He isn't just afraid of ruining and losing Donghyuck, he's now afraid of losing whatever he's gained in his art.

The loneliness he feels is a prison he has built himself. He knows that, understands it because he has friends, admirers, those who will take care of him if he falls sick. But he needs loneliness, thrives off of it, turns it into what he does best and sustains.

He feels selfish for doing this. This -- invalidating every other person who has wished well for him. 

Perhaps his chronic illness isn't falling for Donghyuck but rather falling into the same emotional traps again and again.

He sighs, leaning forward.

If Donghyuck is the wind, Mark is a detached flower. This falling flower sways, floats, whirls, all in the name of being together with the tender breeze. This flower, however damaged and destined to fall, has sworn to love the wind with all it has before he hits the ground.

But of course, the wind shakes down many trees in its wake. A thousand flowers fall in love and then to the soil.

Mark will just have to do with being one of those.

//

Haechan leaves the crowd charmed as always and they laugh with every punchline thrown into their wake. The better half of an hour passes faster than Mark’s fan falls from his grasp. Loud applause fills the hall and if he could see from where he is perched on a stool behind a thick wall of curtains, he would see sunshine incarnate on Haecha- no, Donghyuck’s warm face. The folds of his kimono may hide his sadness, but they can never hide the younger’s happiness. Mark knows. He has seen every fold of fabric Donghyuck has to offer being spun from the bare threads of a lonely childhood.

All he has ever wanted was to be somebody. To belong to someone as much as the other belonged to him.

Within a minute, a curtain peeks open and he is ushered outside.

His first performance as a Futatsume.

Mark blinks.

When he opens his eyes, he's in a new world. Specks of dust dance to the tune of a lone shamisen, people sit with their breaths held still and Donghyuck...his mirth flickers across the stage, an imprint too deep to ever erase.

He alone may not belong to the stage, be it as Mark or as Minhyung, but his longing does. 

It may not have a single name but it has a face.

It is too strong an emotion to hold in. The desire to hold onto silken honey skin -- to taste what lies beneath the secrets of his tongue -- is one he can’t keep from overflowing. It spills, spills like tea that has been brewing for too long. As it splatters across the wooden floors, too difficult to ever gather with anything other than a rag, he opens his mouth.

If nobody will have him -- if nobody wants him -- he will give himself to the crowds, to be lapped up gently by those ready to devour whatever flows their way.

He assumes his position, legs tucked under his weight and sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. If he is destined to fall, he will fall with grace, he thinks.

He moistens his lips softly, fingers splaying out in elegance and downturned eyes with dark lashes casting long shadows under dim candlelight. 

As the shamisen silences, Mark transforms. 

//

One simply doesn't expect the first performance of a Futatsume to be a classic retelling of Shinigami -- the god of death.

Every single expression that takes over his face, every twist and turn of his neck, the flickering of his candle...it's gaunt. It speaks of fear and loss.

The crowd stills whenever Minhyung's voice shifts into a lower tone, deep and throaty enough to make chills run down their spines. A rasp here, a cough there, and it's no longer Minhyung on stage, but the incarnation of death himself.

A lowly man of poor faith and cheap ideals meets the Shinigami, who grants him the power of restoring life. 

"I'll give you a mantra, and every time you recite it, you will be giving someone new life," He says in a scratchy voice. 

A scam turns into him believing he is a doctor, saves people's lives but never learns to be humble. A simple mantra grants him the power to have anybody at his beck and call, he is the master of death -- a noble saviour -- and nothing can stop him from taking over the world and drowning in riches. 

Until he falls, sick and paling. Slow realisation trickles over him, that the Shinigami cheated him, tricked him.

The Shinigami cackles, in glee and despair, that yet another man will bite the dust because greed can never be satisfied. 

For every patient the man had treated, he had given away his own health. The man pleads, begs and writhes on the floor. 

"Spare me! I will change!" He cries, and the Shinigami disappears. 

The man falls lifeless not a moment later; the candle next to him snuffs out.

When the body on stage rises, it is Minhyung once again, gasping for breath and shoulders aching with strain. He bows, drops of sweat falling onto the back of his hands.

The hall is silent and Minhyung stands up, his posture tall and proud for once. He wonders, as he leaves the stage, if his mother had felt helpless too when she burned to her demise.

A clap echoes and then more, till that is the only sound. But Mark has walked out of the theatre, leaving the audience stunned, for it's not the praise that matters to him at this moment. Definitely not praise for losing himself and becoming something else. His narration stems not just from love for the story, but a deep sadness. A loss of his own. His.

And he feels sick, for using his emotions like that. Is storytelling bigger than the ethical value of what he feels?

He slides down a wall, fists clenched and allows his tears to fall for the first time since spring began.

Under the darkening sky, he realises that he is essentially, all alone in this world. 

//

Mark goes drinking with Donghyuck after the announcement that Donghyuck will be officially inheriting their master's title as his best student. 

It definitely didn’t come out of nowhere, as Donghyuck likes to put it. It has been obvious ever since Mark stepped foot at the Lee residence all those years ago that the other was their master’s only hope at continuing the generational name. Haechan too is widely loved and people flock to the theatre door at his name.

"You are a worthy rival, gifted and unique," Donghyuck says, an empty glass dancing between his palms. Mark shakes his head.

"Just a regular late bloomer, nothing special," 

"You just...flow into character. As if you weren’t telling the story, or even living it. How do I say it...you are the story...does it make any sense?"

"Doesn’t mean I deserve to be the master’s successor. You’re a traditional rakugoka Hyuck, if it’s you, the house will be in safe hands. The master’s legacy will carry on."

"But you’re my favourite rival Mark, how can I win when I’ve never challenged you?"

"Challenge me someday then, just once, and feel happy for an admirer can never be as good as the artist."

Donghyuck laughs, "You liar, an admirer can be even better, especially if you are the admirer," He smiles, cheeks flushing as he steals Mark’s glass and empties it. Mark opens his mouth to praise him in turn but stops when he catches a glimpse beneath Donghyuck loose yukata. A large dark bruise decorates his chest.

It takes everything within Mark to stop himself from saying they just shared yet another indirect kiss, because those seemingly mean nothing.

//

Mark is often praised on how sensual yet serious his storytelling is. 

It's a different kind of good that is very difficult to pull off, and Mark feels burdened under the praise. Every time a fan walks up to him, his throat constricts and all he does is murmur barely audible ‘thank you’s. His stomach twists every time someone asks just where he had been storing all this talent.

It is years of practice, thousands of breakdowns and his own ugly feelings.

It is a mixture he despises, but everytime he serves it on a silver platter and brings it out to the world, they eat it like starved animals. He feels lighter, a little less full until he is refilled with dripping frustration once again.

He can't accept any kind words because he is still lacking.

After an evening show, when a pretty young shamisen player comments on just how beautiful Minhyung looks on stage, Donghyuck steps in and asks Mark if he wants to go back home early.

He feels grateful but refuses.

//

Donghyuck twirls, one hand twisted in tawny hair and the other at his waist. It takes little to appreciate the way soft silk clings to his skin. In Mark’s humble opinion, it takes even less to slip a little further, to fall into questioning whether he envies the silk or the full-length mirror in which Donghyuck preens. 

The younger smiles at his dolled-up reflection and Mark decides he wishes to be forged of glass and silver instead of flesh and bone.

"Mark, won’t you come along to Yoshiwara with me?" 

The older stills where he leans against the wall, novel in hand and round glasses perched atop his nose. His heart also shatters but that sound echoes in a universe Donghyuck isn’t privy to the existence of.

"Are you going alone?" 

"I will if you don’t come along."

This shouldn’t be news to him. Go and explore, their master had said, if you want to portray sexuality, you need to feel it in your blood. What better place to finally have a chance to experiment than the red-light district of Yoshiwara? Besides, they’re adults. Mark can’t cling onto flimsy fantasies and hold Donghyuck back from living the way the world does. He will keep his corrupt sincerity to himself.

"I won’t, but wait for a second, will you?"

He turns away before Donghyuck can say anything.

From the confines of his cupboard, Mark pulls out a small box of kohl. Up until that moment, the dark pigment was nothing but a memoir from his days on a theatre stage. Sometimes, sentiments attached to things change to serve the purpose. If Mark couldn’t have him the way he wanted, he’ll leave a little gift in the form of beauty.

"Here," he walks over, lid swirled open and finger dipping in. 

Donghyuck’s eyes widen in surprise before he leans forward. 

As Mark carefully rubs black all over the lower rim of Donghyuck’s doe-shaped eyes, he feels tears gather in his own. Warm puffs of air hit his lips in their proximity and Mark would shiver if it weren’t for how easily the other would notice. 

Even if someone else will hold his best friend tonight, will bathe in the endless glow that the younger carries with him as they embrace, will make him feel as beautiful as he is, Mark will do for him what each loved one should do. Mark will support him entering a new phase of life, even if all he does otherwise is smear a darker colour in Donghyuck’s golden world. He will stand in the shadows and pray that the younger gains something with every night that passes.

As he pulls back, closing the box and staring at his handiwork he can’t help but shatter a little more on the inside.

"There, all done."

"You make me prettier. You really won’t come along?"

What is there to come and see? What will he ever do as he witnesses the flickering flames of hope extinguish within his chest? All that exists is a numbing cold, just like the draft that blows in through broken windows in the middle of December. What use is it to articulate the remnants of a love born of adversity? 

Mark shakes his head. 

Donghyuck’s nimble fingers swipe at a high cheekbone and Mark realises his own body has betrayed him. There are hot tears streaming down his face. He moves to go hide in the bathroom but strong arms pull him back and wrap around his waist.

"What’s wrong? Mark, are you alright?" 

Sweet, sweet Donghyuck stays, worried and worry is an expression that doesn’t suit his face. 

He nearly chokes on air, his throat clogged with the millions of words he has been hiding within himself, never brave enough to say them. 

"Mark-"

"Do you have to go? There?" He whispers, breathing shallow and eyes closed.

The silence that falls between them makes him plunge into regret. This isn’t a story. Life may have been surprising and even eventful so far, but this is it. A few moments and he has managed to ruin every second he has held onto composure. 

Before he can cry out an apology, Donghyuck’s palms are cradling his face, fingertips brushing past unkempt dark hair. 

"If you’d have me, I would never."

Soft lips claim Mark’s and the world stops spinning.

//

Just for a second, mark fears if his slowly building repertoire will crash. If his building love for the way he narrates will have to be buried. If the warmth of lips on his mean that anguished meandering will have to end. He can't afford to lose what he has built because of what he craves. His void shakes, not wanting to be filled.

Then he remembers this isn't a promise of forever, this isn't a promise of love. Forevers are too long and love is too pure. Both, too precious to be given to someone like him.

He hurts just a little more and the swirling darkness retreats to its corner.

//

Donghyuck makes love to Mark.

It's slow and excruciating. Their bodies fit against each other like two parts of a torn paper, a little rugged, a little smooth -- complete by themselves yet whole as one. 

The hands raking his body are hot. Energetic fingertips find parts of him he has never explored. Donghyuck's mouth burns like embers everywhere it leaves an imprint. Mark drowns in sensation.

It smells just like lust is described in every bawdy story he has ever read. But it also smells like lavender scented oil, the special kind their friends brought for Donghyuck. If he pays attention, pieces of home fill him up. Of the used cotton of their futons and freshly washed clothes hung to dry in their little balcony. 

As Mark writhes around to hold something his nails scrape against the wooden floor and then across slippery golden skin. He's home. He's home and he's making love with the person he calls home.

He gasps, wet and loud, and it's all too much to bear all of a sudden. Reality crashes onto him as he sees Donghyuck take in all of him.

It is overwhelming to be the subject of affection when all he's known life long is to pine. Their distance isn't physical, it is metaphorical, existing on a plane untouched by broken dreams. Whenever Donghyuck lets out his name, moans a little louder and shakes in pleasure, Mark feels that distance grow. He might be connected to his love in the most intimate way possible, but he has no way of knowing if he is loved back.

When all is done and they collapse, chests heaving and skin covered in sweat, Mark allows tears to finally roll down. He cries silently, an arm over his face, breaths stuttering. 

Donghyuck is alarmed. He sits up, gathers the older in his arms and whispers sweet nothings. After everything is over, he kisses him, soft and chaste.

They lie down once again, the older's head cradled against Donghyuck's chest. Mark looks out the window, towards the moon and remembers the night he danced again. It was the night he understood why the sky embraces stars, why people in love allude to the moon. At this moment, his eyes flutter close. He can't see the moon when all he can think about is how much love hurts.

Donghyuck whispers to him a while later, half asleep and extremely pleased, that he's grown to love Mark more than a friend, like a lover, like someone he wants to be with for a long time. 

And as Donghyuck speaks, something inside Mark falls into place.

He has had Donghyuck with him for years, for the longest time he has ever had anybody. And he still had his sadness.

He expresses pain in art. The balance has always been twisted, never smooth or righteous. If he loses his pain, he will lose everything. He will lose his progress. But now he realises that the progress won't fade away, for nothing can ever fill the hole in his chest. 

The void is his own creation, his protection. It won't leave him because there is no other body to house it. And that's alright, because Mark needs it for now.

But for the hole in his heart, the one that has been burnt into place like cigarette burns on paper, is being filled with every word that leaves Donghyuck's mouth. Everything that rolls off Donghyuck's tongue is a cure more than a melody.

A warm palm rubs over his cold back and Mark sighs, melting in place.

He confesses that he loves Donghyuck as well, has loved him for as long as he can remember, but he needs time.

He can't believe the younger when his mind is in such disarray, when he has been nothing but a mess. He wants to give Donghyuck the best, the same way he's had it so far, no exceptions. 

As Mark slowly drifts into sleep, he says Donghyuck can leave whenever he wants, can simply go back to all those men that gave him nights full of satisfaction. He doesn't have to make any compromises, he will always have Mark one way or another.

Donghyuck cries silently, his tears disappearing into jet black hair. He promises that he will stay for Mark anyway.

"There's no point in leaving now that I have what I've always dreamed of…"

//

Donghyuck invites Mark to watch his performance that weekend. 

Work has been hectic lately. A famous author has decided to reach out to their publishing house on recommendation and there is no way the work can be messed up. Every employee stands with bated breath as pages are printed, check for quality and arrange the papers in order for binding. Mark cycles back and forth between the two company branches with masses of papers stacked behind him for hours every day.

He has turned down offers of performing that week yet, if he had ever been able to say no to Donghyuck’s endearing pout, he wouldn’t be the shy and simple man he is today.

He leaves work early and manages to make it just in time for Donghyuck's performance, hair a wild mess and shirt half tucked in. Their eyes meet across the small hall, and Donghyuck changes his introduction midway, choosing to retell a story of two hardworking lovers who couldn’t find the priest on their wedding day. 

Mark comes back home that night with a snug arm around his waist and lip colour stains on the tip of his nose.

//

Mark often talks to the ladies at work, some of whom are his fans and come to see his performances every once in a while. Whenever Donghyuck drops by, all his colleagues light up and ask for free tickets. Mark has to laugh every time, his lover -- he still doesn’t believe he can call him that -- is a budding celebrity.

Summer passes by and gives way to the burnished scent of Autumn.

One night as Mark comes back, he finds Donghyuck practising. The man recites every line till he perfects it. No matter how much the younger claims he is a natural and gobbles up compliments, he works harder than anyone else Mark has seen. A cute tongue peeks out while the younger underlines something on the papers spread around him.

Not all talent comes from the womb, he thinks as he washes up then comes back to the kitchen. He glances at the younger again. Hands on the clock move but Donghyuck doesn't, relentless in his pursuit of perfection.

Dedication flows through his blood and Mark smiles.

It’s time to prepare a whole dinner, no matter how inedible it may be.

//

Everything feels like a dream.

Mark floats through a cascade of wishes, of desires that once lay unfulfilled. He closes his eyes and sighs in relief, perhaps the darkness in his heart needs to leave. It won’t disappear forever, he knows, but it will lessen now that he has part of the sun in his life. It makes him think of change and growth, of a day where he would be a better version of himself.

As he stands, in bliss, he catches a glimpse of Minhyung. Smiling.

It is a dream.

//

Donghyuck brings back chocolate one day. 

It's a simple box, decorated in round designs and a flimsy red ribbon. Donghyuck bubbles with joy as he hands over the box to Mark. 

Mark puts down the script he has been learning and gently tugs at the ribbon. There are small chocolate balls wrapped in thin material. He looks up at Donghyuck, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. 

"I wanted to bring you chocolate in February, but I couldn't, so why not bring it now? I don't think I can wait for a whole year."

It's a festival from the west, to give their lover sweets. To let them know they want them, now and forever, just as lovable and loving as melting chocolate on their tongues.

He picks up a piece, unwraps it and pops it into his mouth. 

It tastes familiar. It tastes like the sadness he's been singing of all his life -- someone's lifelong efforts poured into one thing. It is satisfaction with whatever you have received and made. He can taste a flicker of bliss, and he longs to taste more.

He reaches out, pulls Donghyuck towards him and kisses him, mouth open and sticky. 

Donghyuck tastes the same, like the culmination of arduous work that gives him unbound satisfaction. Almost as if everything he has ever worked for lies here, in the inexistant space between their bodies, on the floor of their little home.

"I love you," heart-shaped lips murmur when he breaks away to breathe.

Mark leans back to stare at him. He glows, be it in light or not. The universe is benevolent. To have been gifted the support and love of someone this astonishing, someone worth being called sunshine. 

"I love you as well," he reconnects their mouths, passion licking up his veins.

Tongues lap around each other, sliding silkily and they eagerly drink up whatever noises the other makes.

When they pull away a few minutes later, Donghyuck whispers into Mark's ears with his chocolate stained lips just how much he has waited. He has waited for a day when Mark would finally love him back. For a day, he could declare to the world in earnest that his love is reciprocated with the same intensity.

At the admission, Mark feels his darkness shift. It's shyly twisting around to make space for a beacon of light, to coexist. 

They hold each other, arms tight and tears running down their faces out of sheer happiness.

//

If refinement of art were to be taught exclusively, Mark would need no master. 

While the tragedy of his sad stories still burn through people's hearts, his erotic stories have a bigger and more solid audience now. With a few of the last bans lifted, he freely narrates a wider range of sensual stories. Whenever he needs to be coy, he recalls nights Donghyuck has spent coaxing him open. When he needs to be assertive or mysterious, he remembers nights Donghyuck leaves the reins in his hands. 

Now that he knows what it feels like to have both love and despair live side by side, he has found a new dimension. He learns to live within ancient tales spun of human desire. 

He still draws for emotion from his own self, but it doesn’t seem horribly dishonorable now, just a little unethical, like a blurred grey line. He can do it, lives with it, allows it to refill whatever distress is pinched out of him. After all, he knows in his heart that this is exactly where he wants to be, on the same stage as his lover, his idol, his life.

As time changes, so will Mark, and he will walk hand in hand, step by step, all next to the person he loves with all his life, doing what he has always wanted to do.

He wants to grow, finally, certainly.

//

With Donghyuck's promotion to Shin'uchi, a master, there's no better celebration than to buy a house of their own in the more homely suburbs of Tokyo.

Work is well, the stage is a friend and time simply flows by like the Sanzu-no-kawa, serene and quiet.

Mark lights incense around the house -- the one their friends brought for them -- as Donghyuck remains fast asleep, their cat curled up in his arms, adorable even if there's more than countable white hair falling on his round forehead. Mark drops a chaste peck there for good measure.

There will always be some loss in life, there will always be enough reasons to lose himself to sadness, but Mark chooses to look at the brighter moments whenever he feels himself sway, and redefines what he calls art. His void agrees, ever present but malleable. 

He has sweet loyal Donghyuck and a small family to call just theirs. Perhaps it stems from his darkness, the fiery desire to have Donghyuck all for himself, to be the one Haechan recites stories for. Yet, those are emotions he finds returned tenfold whenever they as much as hold hands. They sure are growing old together, both as artists and people, at the same pace. When one falters, the other pulls them along on a fast paced journey, on yet another journey of soft acceptance and dear compromise.

If anybody asks him if all the pining and struggling was worth it, Mark would say yes within a heartbeat. 

He would sit them down, tune the radio in to his husband’s latest broadcast, push back his glasses and light a cigarette, ready to narrate the story of a time when all he felt was loneliness and a ghastly sense of self-inflicted pain.

Perhaps it's time he steps off the stage and takes to writing drama instead.

//

And the curtain falls.

**Author's Note:**

> mark's character draws inspiration from yakumo; this work doesn't follow the anime (although highly recommend watching it, just be ready to be sad)
> 
> stay safe, take care, stay hydrated


End file.
